


To weather a storm

by Buggirl



Series: Ciara and Thom [6]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Blow Jobs, F/M, Man Pain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-12
Updated: 2015-10-12
Packaged: 2018-04-26 01:28:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4984606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Buggirl/pseuds/Buggirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thom Rainier returns to the Storm Coast looking to bury the past, his love Ciara Adaar travels with him. Set just after the fall of Corypheus.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To weather a storm

**Author's Note:**

> Thankyou to Noseforahtwo on tumblr for the beta.

_A bard can tell a tale of redemption, of those lost and then found, but it is never as simple as it is in a song._

Here on the Storm Coast, the rain never stops. A deafening crack from the dark sky signals a great storm is on its way. Thom Rainier seeks to lay his past to rest. This task to be first of many and Ciara Adaar is with him. He would have come alone, but truth be told he didn’t want to make this trip without her.

Since the defeat of Corypheus, many of the Inquisition troops throughout Orlais and Fereldan have withdrawn to Skyhold. To recuperate, to reconnect and to celebrate the fall of those who wished doom on the world. There are few camps left on the coast now, the two closest to Thom and Ciara are both on the beachfront, the worst place to be during a storm such as this. They walk to where Thom thinks the Warden Blackwall’s remains lay and there is water pooling in their packs and trickling down the backs of their necks.

“We have to stop,” Thom says. “This is ridiculous.”

“Where? The last two buildings had holes in the roof and no place dry for shelter.” The cold and the wet have Ciara gritting her teeth in frustration.

“Anywhere,” he snaps. “Back to the caves where the scouts have likely gone. Even a dwelling with a hole in the roof would be better than this. At least it would provide some measure of protection.” 

“There is no way we’ll make it back to any of the campsites or the caves. We’ll have to settle for some pissy stable until the storm blows over,” Ciara shouts through the roar of the rainfall.

Thom looks around. “What about that abandoned house on the hill - Apostate’s Landing if I recall.”

“The one with the bodies in the basement?” Ciara shivers.

“Yes that’s the one, but any port in a storm.” Thom stops to get his bearings. “If I remember correctly, it was still in use by local fishermen - a sound lodging. It should be near here.”

Ciara’s gaze turns east “I think the quicker we get there the better.” She shakes the rain from her face. “If it still stands.”

They trudge up the hill, it’s steeper than he remembers. By the time they reach the top, after fighting the wind and the driving rain they are huffing and puffing, their breath a hot mist on the cold air. The house is rough round the edges and the stable on the outside has lost part of its ceiling in the storm. The door to the main house is still there and fortunately, unlocked. Inside, indication that it’s been occupied since they were last here, wood is stacked in one corner and on top of the table, a stack of unfurled maps. A bed takes up another corner, not big enough for two, they can see the broken slats underneath and the mattress smells damp. However, there is floor space aplenty.

“Looks like hunters have been here as well as the fisherfolk.” She kicks away several broken arrows.

“Most likely. Bears here are as abundant as they are in the Hinterlands. Maybe if they can brave the weather they’ll get a good haul,” Thom says. “There is a fireplace at least.”

“I don’t remember that being here before.” She walks over to the stone fireplace and runs her hands over its rough surface. There is dust on the mantel but hardly any soot on the stone. “This is new, the mortar is hardly black at all.”

“Someone has gone to the trouble of making this place comfortable, but it feels abandoned.” He looks around to see the door to the basement ajar. “I’ll check the basement.”

“You do that, I’m not going down there.” She shakes her head.

Thom lays his shield and sword by the door and descends. The shrine, or whatever it was, is still there, but someone has removed the bodies and skeletons that he remembers had made everyone’s skin crawl. In one corner, two rusty braziers, and several grain sacks. On a nearby shelf, a bottle of whiskey sat full and forlorn. He grabs it and returns.

Ciara has laid her pack down and propped her axe against the wall. The door blows open behind her making a loud bang as it hit the wall. “If that is going to continue to do that--” She points to an upturned side table. “Here, help me.” Thom places the bottle on the mantel and helps her slide the side table in front of the door. 

“Should hold,” he says as he rechecks the latch.

“It bloody better,” Ciara replies.

“Aye, keep us in, and everyone else out. We have warmth and more.” He lifts the bottle from the mantel to show her.

“Warm inside and out.” A weak smile draws across her face.

Despite the sturdiness of the walls, the wind howls around the building. If anything, it is a reflection of how he feels inside. He’s a jumble of emotions about being here, about what went before. The death of a good man that was not his doing, yet it still plagues him, it has done for years and he’s still not free of it despite all that has happened since then. Thom squints at the ceiling and makes a long ‘hmmm noise’. “As long as the roof holds,” he sighs.

Ciara lays a hand on his shoulder. “When the storm blows over, we can find the location again, Thom. Warden Blackwall isn’t going anywhere.”

“And neither are we it seems,” he heaves another sigh a loud peal of thunder reverberates through the house.

Thom takes off his gloves and kneels by the fireplace. He looks up the chimney. It appears to be clear so no smoke inside as long as the wood in the corner is dry.

It takes little time for the fire to start, the crackle and pop of flame occasionally louder than the wind and the rain outside. Thom removes his gauntlets, plates of armour, greaves and pauldrons and he kicks off his boots. He watches as Ciara removes hers. Unlike him though, underneath she has no sturdy Gambeson to keep her warm, a simple tunic loose at the neck and hessian pants is all she wears. She removes her greaves and knee high sturdy leather boots. He smiles as she wiggles her toes in her stocking feet. She rubs her arm as she moves closer to the fire. He can hear her swearing under her breath.

“Why wear such light clothing?” Thom questions. Ciara shoots him a withering glance. He takes the hint. “The wood is relatively dry at least,” he says.

Thom tosses the soggy mattress to one side and pushes the bed base close to the fire. The noise of it scraping against the wooden floor makes Ciara grimace and he shoots her an apologetic look. They seat themselves on the floor close to the fire, backs to the substantial, but broken, wooden bed. They say little to each other as they thaw by the increasing warmth staring into the flames as they dance higher. To him the silence is a blessing, a great comfort for his currently disrupted mind. He knows she is annoyed and he watches her quietly as she loosens her braid and combs her fingers through the long strands. 

“You needn’t have come, Ciara,” he says.

The withering glance returns. “We’ve been through this before, Thom.” She sidles close to him. “I want to be here, as much as it seems otherwise.” She places a hand on his knee. “I’m here for you. It’s just-- this bloody weather. Does it ever stop raining here?”

He gives a quiet laugh and lays a hand over hers, she is still bone cold. He stands, removes his gambeson and drapes it around her shoulders.

“Thom, no.”

“Yes,” he replies. “Until the chill is wrung out of you.”

He sits back down and she smiles and kisses his nose. “Join me, and I’m sure I’ll get warm real quick.”

“Minx.”

“I try.” She wraps her arms about his torso and lays her head on his shoulder. “Although I have to say this weather has certainly put a dampener on my passion.” A deafening clap of thunder broke overhead and makes Ciara jump. She nestles in closer.

“It seems that way,” he replies. He reaches for the bottle of whiskey. It takes some effort to remove the corked lid, eventually it comes off with a pop and he sniffs and takes a swig. “Ugh. Rot gut stuff. Plenty of alcohol.” He takes another draught then hands the bottle to her. He rests his hand on his raised knee.

She takes a mouthful and coughs. “Oh that-- that’s strong.”

Half a bottle shared later, the gambeson falls from Ciara’s shoulders and she turns her head to look at him. Her eyes have that unconstrained quality, as if they’re not focussing, he knows that look well. She never breaks the gaze they have as she sneaks a hand up under his shirt and plays with the hair just below his belly button. His stomach spasms at her touch.

“My Lady, is it wise? With a storm outside?”

“Thom, we can’t get out, no one can get in. It’s warm in here, feel my cheeks.” She grabs his hand and places his palm on her face.

Her face is warm to the touch and a spark of fire hits his loins. “I still think--”

Her eyes focus and she sits astride one of his legs, her arse planted on his knee. She pushes her still wet hair to the side and places her hands on his shoulder she looks down at him. “This thing that you have, this constant--” She heaves a sigh. “This constant berating yourself, has to stop. We’re here to deal with whatever is left of your guilt about Warden Blackwall, and to bury it and him. I’m hoping you can do that, with my help if necessary.”

He turns his face away from hers, eyes cast downward.

“Thom,” she says softly and he lifts his gaze back to her. “I know you’re on edge. I’ve weathered many storms to keep you by my side. I don’t wish to lose you to the doubt you still keep, about yourself, about us. I’ve learned, since all of this, since the inquisition, since you -that you cannot control the weather.” She plays with the hair on his neckline and stares directly into his eyes.

Through the dampness, she smells of whiskey, of apples, of embrium flowers and freshly picked elf root. His nostrils flare. Her hands caressing his beard a familiar touch that he often craves. “Ciara, you’re right about me, but you’re wrong about us, I will never doubt us, not now, not ever.” He kisses her hard, breaks and leans back with a frown. He feels a thickness in his throat, guilt about his desires, to have thoughts like these here on the storm coast of all places, feels inconsistent with his duty and purpose.

Ciara sits back and he’s witness to her annoyance, her clenching jaw and grimace. It’s a contrast to his shoulder hunch and blank look. It’s a hint of the shame he felt -- still feels, even more that he desires her, wants her. It’s a selfish need he thinks and one he’s not willing to initiate despite her eagerness. “I want too, but I shouldn’t.”

Ciara rubs her brow and sighs. “Okay then--” She tries to move from his knee.

“Stay.” He grabs her hips and holds them tight.

She wobbles with how firm his grip is and her hands fumble on his shoulders. “Stay?”

His fingers dig into the soft flesh. “Stay.” His mind clutters with random thoughts. What is right and wrong, what he should do and where he should go, but it takes only an instant to know that she is right, that her being here with him is right.

She nods and bites her lip. She wiggles on his knee and his grip becomes tighter. She pulls off her loose tunic top and breast band and remains half-naked and motionless on his knee.

He drinks in her form, mixed with a haze of whiskey the light shining from the fire behind her gives an otherworldly glow. “Aren’t you cold?” 

She places her hands over his still firmly plastered on her hips, and slides them up her sides until they are level with her breasts. “Do I feel cold?”

There’s no icy chill in her now. Her skin is silky and warm and her cheeks, along with the skin on her chest are burning pink beneath her grey toned skin. His eyes trace the features of her face to survey for a smile, he sees it return, hints at the corner of her lips. A smug grin starts to form across his. “Yes it’s warm in here now,” he says.

“So--” Ciara’s hand returns to the trail of hair on his stomach, her gaze full of intent. “Let me play, Thom, let me please you and maybe I can calm your inner storm.” She moves off his lap and kneels beside him.

He looks into her eyes and is lost, the shape of her mouth, the curl of her lip when she says ‘Thom’ is always his undoing. “You always please me, my Lady.”

Ciara’s hand forces its way past the tightness of his waistband.

Thom grunts. “Hold on--” He unfastens the ties at his waist allowing more wiggle space for her hand but she has his cock out and exposed before he can even try.

Her head disappears into his lap and he sucks in a breath as her tongue lashes over the pre-cum oozing from its tip. Her tongue isn’t warm, it’s blazing hot against him. He throws his head back and moans. One of Ciara’s hands begins to run up and down his shaft, callouses at the base of her fingers adding extra sensory pleasure. He squeezes his eyes shut at how good it feels.

Her tongue continues to lick the tip, encircle it slowly round and round. The movement is making it hard for him to sit still but she has a firm grip on his shaft and runs her hand up and down as she licks.

He sees that her other hand has snuck down into her own pants and likely into her smalls. In any other place, he’d have reached out, begged for his hand to be where hers is and play with the velvety lips of her vulva, but he stays with his hand at his sides. Her soft full lips running down the length of his shaft distract him, he shoves her hair to the side to see her lips glisten in the glow of the fire. He watches her mouth on him, licking him, sucking him as she makes her way back up to the tip.

He’s still holding her hair as Ciara moves down his shaft again to lap at his balls. Her breath is searing against the delicate skin and there is the tantalising vibration of her voice as it hums against him, a response to her own ministrations. He waves his other hand in the air looking for a place for it to rest and settles on the smooth skin of her shoulders. His fingers stroke gently and she responds by arching her back.

He lets out a low growling moan as she moves back up to the tip leaving his balls cooling from her licks and places the head in her mouth and slides down as far as she can without gagging, then back up again. Every time she reaches the tip she swirls her tongue over the hole at the centre.

There’s no doubt that his mind is far from what’s bothering him, he’s too far gone to think of anything but this woman and her mouth making him shake and moan. He groans when she withdraws her hand from her smalls and looks up into his eyes her mouth still on the tip of his cock. Her amber eyes burn brighter than the fire that lights the skin of her back. He knows she wants the hurt to disappear; she wants to calm the storm inside him.

She takes his hands “You want to put these on my head? On my horns? Yes?”

“Only if--”

She leans in and over him, lips close enough to kiss, her bare breasts brush against him all too briefly. “You want to slam yourself into my mouth, yes? Want my lips at your hilt, yes?”

“Maker, yes.” His breath labours in answer and he licks his lips. The alcohol has hit the pit of his stomach and burns as much as his lust for her.

“Then do it, Thom, don’t hold back.” Ciara kisses each hand before placing them onto the base of her horns. 

His fingers run over the skin of the base, he knows she likes that, he’s seen her purr like a cat when he’s caressed them before, but this is something different, something far coarser than anything he has ever done with her previously. Her mouth returns to the head of his cock, warm and inviting it takes all his restraint to hold back but when he feels her mouth relax around him, as she lets him sink into her, his hold on her horns becomes firmer and he pulls her hard down on to his cock and allows himself to fuck her mouth.

Her hands grip his thighs and her breasts press against his legs, her arse wiggles invitingly in the air, lit by the flames of the fire behind. He can feel her fingers digging into the flesh with each thrust. He feels her gag around him, her tongue caught, and releases her, he looks down at her and she up at him, and there are tears in her eyes. She spits all the juices she’s gathered onto his cock, her mouth returns to the tip and she engulfs him whole again all the way down as she promised, to the hilt.

He fucks her hard, the grip on her horns fixed, and his movements unrelenting, until the tingle and familiar tightness coils in his balls he cries her name as he spills into her willing mouth. He lets go of her horns and tugs at her hair to pull her off. He closes his eyes and throws his head back as he shudders with the remnants of his orgasm. When he’s done he opens his eyes to find her breathless and panting in front of him, her face and her hair a mess of fluids, tears and cum.

He blinks rapidly, the heat from the fire, and from his exertions have made him hotter than the day he spent wandering naked in the Hissing Wastes. “Maker, you look fucking beautiful,” he says with a gasping breath.

She smiles and wipes at her face with the back of her hand, he leans forward and offers his sleeve and she wipes her mouth and dabs at her eyes. He moves his hands to either side of her face and brings her close for a rough open-mouthed kiss. He hums a moan as he tastes his own saltiness on her lips.

Ciara sits back on her heels and sniffs, a large grin on her face. “Feel better?” she asks.

“Yes, very much so.” He tucks himself back into his pants and brings her in to an embrace, squashing her breasts tight against him and with one-hand strokes the base of her horns. She responds with a quiet moan. “You didn’t mind?” he asks.

He felt her shake her head no against his chest. 

“I think I was the one who encourage you to say yes. Now, I’m definitely not cold, although I’m sure I will be soon.”

He put a hand on hers it was warm, if not a little sticky.

"Hear that?” Ciara says.

Thom tilts his head. “No. I can’t hear anything.”

“The storm has passed.” She holds him even tighter and they lay down amongst the folds of his gambeson.

“Indeed it has.” He traces a finger at the base of her horns once more and gives her a deep and loving kiss.

_The earth is soft after the heavy rain, easy to dig even though they only need a small grave. There is naught but bones left of the good Warden Blackwall. Thom lays his crest over the bleached and crumbling remains and they cover it with dirt._

_Thom says a prayer as Ciara stands by his side._

_“Maker, though the darkness comes upon me, I shall embrace the light. I shall weather the storm. I shall endure. What you have created, no one can tear asunder.”_


End file.
